Off the Record 1'5
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: A one-shot sequel following "Off the Record". It takes place four years after the events of the main plot-line.


**DISCLAIMER:** **Hetalia: Axis Powers** – **Hidekaz Himaruya**

 **OFF THE RECORD 1.5**

AUTHOR'S NOTE: _Off The Record 1.5_ is a one-shot sequel that I wrote following _Off The Record_. It takes place four years after the events of the main plot-line. It wasn't planned, I wrote it just for fun (it's funny where and when inspiration suddenly strikes). Thank-you to everyone who read and reviewed _Off The Record_. I hope you enjoy this spontaneous extra :)

CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):

CANADA — Mathew Bonnefoi

PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt

* * *

 **TORONTO, ONTARIO**

Gil, it's getting late," said Matt. He locked the front-door and flicked off the hallway light. Gil ignored him, continuing to talk as Matt climbed the stairs. Animatedly, he regaled Matt about a long-winded day being an "awesome!" police detective. Matt rolled his violet eyes, readjusting the thermostat as he passed (it was mid-July and hot and Matt found it hard to sleep in the heat). He stood idly by as the temperature plummeted, sighing in relief. Gil continued to talk, disregarding the late-hour. Matt had never met anyone who functioned on as little sleep as Gilbert Beilschmidt, who was always lively nonetheless. Not even Al Jones, his former-partner from the NYPD—whose friendliness stopped just short of homicidal when tired or hungry—could keep up with him when Gil was excited. Finally, Matt said: "Gil, I've got my last exam tomorrow, I've got to sleep!"

"Ja, okay." Gil sighed. "You're going to ace it, Mattie. Don't stress."

"Oui je sais," Matt replied, entering their shared bedroom. "Merci, mon chéri."

"Oh! Come on, schatz!" Gil suddenly moaned. "You know it turns me on when you speak French, that's just mean!"

A suggestive smirk tugged Matt's lips. "Oh? Aimez-vous, chéri? Est-ce bien?" he whispered as he undressed. He unzipped his hoodie slowly, toying with Gil, and hung it over a desk-chair; then he pulled his t-shirt off overhead and unbelted his blue-jeans, letting everything fall to the floor. He stood in his plaid boxer-shorts, ripe for the taking.

"Fick, you're sexy. And mean," Gil repeated. "I wish I could see you and touch you. I miss you, schatz."

"I know. I miss you too," Matt said, sitting down on the bed's edge. He shifted the cell-phone against his ear. "But it's just one more night."

"Ja, ja, I know. I hate that these dummkopf courses are mandatory. And I hate that they're in Ottawa. I don't need some stuffy professor-type telling me how to do my job, I'm an awesome cop. I've got more arrests than anyone else on the force, you know."

"You're bragging," Matt said, feigning disapproval.

"I know you like it," Gil countered. "And I've got the photograph to prove it."

Even though Gil couldn't see him, Matt blushed. He knew exactly which photograph Gil was talking about because he had seen it displayed on the German's cell-phone screen. "Eh! I took that photo as a joke. And I was really drunk!" Matt flopped back on the bed. "I never meant to send it."

"I know, that's the best part," Gil laughed. "That— and the fact that you're half-naked and wearing my dress-uniform. You'd make a sexy cop, schatz. Or a stripper."

"Gil, it's getting late," Matt repeated, changing the topic. "I've really got to sleep now."

"Okay. I can't wait to see you tomorrow. Ich liebe dich, schatz."

Matt smiled, clenching the cell-phone in yearning. "I love you too, Gil. _Je t'aime_ ," he added, listening to Gil's desperate moan as the call ended.

Matt laid on his back in the dark, holding the cell-phone against his chest: his heart. Gil had been on-course in Ottawa for two weeks, leaving Matt alone in Toronto. A fortnight was not the longest they had spent apart, but Matt disliked it when Gil left. The two-story house was so quiet without him, so lonely. If Matt hadn't been studying for final exams—he was in his last year at the University of Toronto, graduating in October—he would have accompanied Gil to the capital. While Gil was on-course he could have visited with Francis, who lived a short drive from Parliament Hill (Gil called it "the Bonnefoi Manor", which was ridiculous—it wasn't _that_ big a house). _But Gil's coming home tomorrow_. Matt smiled to himself. His heart fluttered in anticipation, like a shy schoolboy's. Despite his feigned indifference, he liked that, after four years of being together, Detective Beilschmidt could still make him blush.

"I love you," he whispered to Gil's side of the bed (which Matt slept on when Gil worked the night shift), where a picture of them sat framed on the bedside-table.

It was as Matt was pulling on Gil's t-shirt to sleep in (a soccer jersey: _Deutschland ist Weltmeister_!), that he heard a distinct creak on the stairs. He tensed instinctively, staring wide-eyed at the half-closed bedroom door.

It had been nearly five years since Ivan Braginsky had kidnapped Matt in New York; nearly five years since the criminally-insane Russian had been found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment. But every time that Matt felt afraid of something, those horrible memories resurfaced afresh. He would remember the raw fear and desperation he had suffered at Ivan's hands, which were feelings that only Gil could quell. The German would hug Matt and talk to him and kiss him until the feeling of debilitating fear had passed. It was embarrassing. Gil didn't suffer panic-attacks from post-traumatic stress, but he never poked fun at Matt for feeling it, which Matt was grateful for. He could always rely on Gil to make him feel safe. Except, this time, Gil wasn't there.

"Hello—?" Matt called nervously. Cautiously, he crept to the bedroom door. "Is someone there?"

Silence answered him. The house slept, like the rest of the neighbourhood.

 _It's just my imagination_ , Matt thought as he stepped into the hallway. It was dark. The moonlight was pale, casting everything as elongated shadows. _I'm overreacting_ , _just paranoid. It's nothing. It's not Ivan_ , he told himself as he reached for the light-switch. _It's not Ivan._ _Ivan's in jail._ He flicked the switch and the hallway brightened. It was empty. He walked to the staircase and surveyed the main-floor from the landing, satisfied when he found nothing out of the ordinary. The front-door was still locked. He sighed in relief. _Just my mind playing tricks. It's not Ivan._

He turned around to return to bed—

—and came face-to-face with a hooded stranger.

Matt's first instinct was to shriek, but it died in his throat. _Ivan_ —?! But upon closer inspection, it wasn't. The stranger was too short to be the big, broad-shouldered Russian and his presence was less foreboding. Matt would not ever forget the feel of Ivan, and this man was not him. He was closer to Francis' size, though stockier in build, and his movements were erratic. He was younger than the Frenchman. He had a goatee and vengeful black eyes that glared at Matt as he reached for the boy with a half-gloved hand. It was studded, a cheap imitation of brass-knuckles, which he curled into a fist. Matt dodged the stranger, and gasped:

"Who are you?! What are you doing in my house?!"

"Beilschmidt," the stranger growled. "That fucker put my brother away for sixteen years, he took everything from us! So now"—he lunged and grabbed Matt—"I'm going to take everything from him. Yeah, I know who you are, _sweetheart_ ," he said, exposing a knife. "That Beilschmidt-fucker's too idiotic not to talk about how much he loves his violet-eyed boyfriend. So I'm going to carve out those pretty eyes and mail them to him, signed with fucking love. This is for my brother!" he yelled in attack. " _Ah_ —!"

Matt kneed the stranger hard in the stomach and sprinted down the hall, down the stairs, to the front-door.

"Eh?! Come back here! I'll carve you up if it's the last thing I fucking do!"

Matt retreated into the common-room as the stranger barreled down the stairs, blocking the front-door. He held the knife, which glinted in the pale moonlight. It reflected his black eyes, which were dilated. _Oh great_ , _he's on drugs_ , Matt thought, searching for a weapon. His heart was pounding but he didn't panic, not this time. As the stranger charged at him he grabbed an aluminum hockey stick—and swung.

* * *

 **TORONTO GENERAL HOSPITAL**

 **SIX HOURS LATER**

Matt?! Mattie—?!" Gil hurried into the hospital's reception, which was crawling with black-coated police officers. He, himself, was wearing his nylon jacket, which had TPS emblazoned on the breast. Matt was standing beside a coffee-machine with two officers, who were taking his statement. He looked tired, bewildered perhaps, and he was nursing a purpling bruise, but otherwise he looked fine. His violet eyes softened when he saw Gil and the German's heart skipped a beat. "Mattie, are you okay?" he demanded, pulling his boyfriend into a fierce, protective embrace. He kissed Matt's forehead, his cheek, and his lips. It was quick, conveying concern. Then he pulled back and held the boy's face in his hands, searching him for signs of abuse. "Oh Gott! I'm so sorry, Matt. It's all my fault. That psychopath went after you because of me. I'm sorry." He felt Matt's fingers clutch his jacket, holding him. "Tell me what happened."

Matt took Gil's hand and squeezed it. He spoke as if he was recovering from shock. "I-I— I don't really know. This guy broke into the house and said you put his brother in jail. He said he would carve out my eyes and give them to you—?" His violet gaze stared in disbelief, seeking comfort from Gil.

"Mattie—?" he prompted.

"So I beat him into a coma with a hockey stick," Matt finished.

Gil blinked in shock. Then he heaved a sigh of relief and pulled Matt into another bone-crushing hug. "That's mein schatz!" he praised.

* * *

 **TWO HOURS LATER**

They've rescheduled my exam," said Matt, walking into the bedroom. "It's tomorrow at nine o'clock. Eh, Gil," he said apprehensively. Gil was unpacking his suitcase (he couldn't leave it in disarray, he was too meticulous about his stuff), but he glanced over-the-shoulder when he recognized Matt's tone. "Am I going to get in trouble?" he asked nervously. He glanced at the life-saving hockey stick, which was leaning non-threateningly against the closet's door.

Gil smiled at him. " Nein. Of course not, schatz. It was self-defense, I won't let them call it anything else."

Matt nodded. "Oh. Oui bien," he said, slipping absently into French.

"Hey," Gil stalked forward and placed his hands on Matt's hips. The boy's body was slight-figured and cold, but soft. Gently, Gil pulled him forward until they were nearly chest-to-chest, and he grinned suggestively. "Don't do that. You know what it does to me, schatz," he said in mock-threat.

Slowly, Matt's lips curled into a receptive smile. "Oh, oui?" Innocently, he reached behind Gil and grabbed the detective's black police cap, which he placed crookedly atop his pale-blonde curls. " Aimez-vous, _Détective_?" he whispered. Playfully, he wrapped his arms around Gil's neck and kissed him softly, a teasing taste.

"Oh Gott, Matt. Ich liebe dich," Gil moaned. He closed the gap between them and kissed him deeply, sucking the boy's lips, his tongue. "I love you so much," he gasped. "I don't ever want to lose you, schatz. That guy, that mutterficker, was right: you're my everything."

"And you're mine," Matt replied tenderly. He hugged Gil's neck as the German lifted him. They fell together onto their shared bed. "You don't have to worry about me, chéri, not anymore. I'm not going anywhere. I love you so much, Gilbert. And I always will.

" _Je t'aime_."

* * *

 **ENDE**

 **THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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